Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  “No kosher for me, Angie. I’m not very observant, although I am a woman of faith.”

  “Same here,” I said. We agreed to meet in forty-five minutes.

  Chapter 18

  One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune, one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business.

  Charlotte Brontë

  I prepared a simple antipasto salad, replacing the usual salami with homemade meatballs from the deli counter at Glorioso’s Italian Market, and sliced a loaf from Sciortino’s Bakery. As I punched the button for my coffee maker, the intercom rang, and I buzzed Debby inside.

  She handed me a bottle of Chianti and said, “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Angie.”

  “No problem,” I assured her. “I’ll set this on the table and give you a little tour, if you’d like. First the living room.” I guided her toward my spectacular view of Lake Michigan. Today the whitecaps gently rolled in, but on a stormy day, the Edmund Fitzgerald came to mind.

  Debby stood for more than a minute, gazing out the window. Then she sighed. “That’s so beautiful. I bet you can’t wait to see what it looks like every morning.”

  “You’re right.” I gestured to the wall to her left.

  “Ohhh,” she whispered. “It’s perfect there.”

  “It is indeed,” I said. “I love the interplay of fabric, yarn, leather, and metal that you incorporated. Everyone who sees it comments on how lovely it is.”

  We wandered through the dining area and past the kitchen, then into the guest bedroom and the master suite. “I’ve been remodeling for a year now,” I told her, “in anticipation of my reunion with Wukowski.” The planning and execution of the new look helped alleviate the sheer torture that being without the man I loved put me through. We’d never get those nine hundred and forty-six days back, but I certainly planned to make all the rest of our days memorable. “I was at Mick’s shop that morning to pick up copper art panels he made.” I gestured to the still-empty wall opposite the foot of my king-sized bed.

  Debby nodded and turned to me. “The police will let you have them, won’t they?”

  “Once they finish their work in the shop,” I said.

  “Was it… bad? They didn’t tell me what happened,” she said. “Please, Angie, I’d like to know. It can’t be worse than what I’ve been imagining.”

  Her large blue eyes sought mine, and I sensed a need for reassurance. “From what I saw, Mick must’ve died quickly. He was shot twice,” I said, but I didn’t offer details. “It looked like he tried to defend himself, but the knife in his right hand was no match for a gun.”

  She gave a sharp intake of breath and asked, “In his right hand?”

  I nodded.

  “But… Mick was left-handed. He complained about tools for lefties being much more expensive. Surely he’d use that hand in a knife fight.”

  “You’re right,” I mused. “I wonder why he’d be holding the weapon in his other hand. Unless… there was a cut on his left forearm.”

  “Oh. I suppose that’s the reason then,” she said.

  I decided to change the subject. “Why don’t we eat and you can tell me about Mick’s decision to name you in his will.” I directed her to the dining room, where the table was set and waiting for us. “I’m afraid the Chianti needs to breathe.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m not much of a drinker. Coffee would be fine, though. Can I help with anything?” Debby asked.

  “Nothing left to do,” I told her, bringing my already-prepared carafe to the table. “It’s an Italian lunch today, with food from my favorite markets. I hope you like antipasto and Italian bread.”

  “I certainly do.”

  We tucked in with gusto, enjoying the crusty warm bread from Milwaukee’s premier Italian bakery and the spicy smells of peppers and meatballs, nicely balanced by creamy fresh mozzarella and salty olives. When Debby pushed back slightly, I followed suit. “Why don’t we take our coffee to the living room?”

  ***

  Time to open the discussion, I thought. “Debby, how did Mick come to select you to take over his estate?”

  Her eyes swept across the view before she turned to me. “I’m not sure,” she said. “We weren’t particularly friendly, you know. But Mick was standoffish to everyone, so I didn’t take it personally. Last July, he came into the shop at closing time with a briefcase and said that he needed to talk to me. For a moment I was afraid he planned to evict me or raise the rent. But instead, he pulled out a sheaf of papers and told me that he needed to get his affairs in order. He had no family living, and he wanted me to take over the Arts Galleria and act as his executor.”

  “That must’ve been a shock.”

  “A puff of air could’ve knocked me over, and I’m no lightweight.” She sipped her coffee. “I really didn’t want to take it on, Angie, but Mick convinced me that I was the best person to run the Galleria if anything happened to him. He assured me that his finances were in good order and I wouldn’t have problems keeping it going. What could I do?” She raised her hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I felt so bad for him that he didn’t even have a close friend to ask. And when he said that his personal property would be mine too, I just about fainted.”

  “Wow!” I said. “Small wonder you felt overwhelmed.”

  “He was adamant and I didn’t think I could refuse, for the good of all the owners. So I signed the papers, and he told me he’d have them notarized and get me a copy. Then he left. He handed over the paperwork the following week, and we never discussed it again. In fact, I kind of forgot about it until he… died.”

  “Did you bring the papers with you?”

  “Oh, right.” She levered herself up, got her purse from the hall closet, and removed a larger-than-legal-size envelope. “Here,” she said. “You take it. I honestly don’t know what I should do next.”

  The envelope was gummed shut and stamped with the name and address of a local attorney, Rebecca Franken. “I think the best step is to contact the lawyer and make an appointment. Unless you have someone else you prefer to work with.”

  “Well, no. The person who looked over the rental agreement for the shop retired and moved to Texas more than two years ago,” she said. Pacing over to the window and back, she asked, “Am I in trouble?” with a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. “I mean, will the police think I killed Mick because of the inheritance?” She began to wring her hands and then stopped herself.

  “I’m sure they’ll have questions,” I responded, “but they won’t jump to conclusions.” I placed the package on the coffee table. “The morning of Mick’s death, where were you?”

  “At home,” she promptly replied. “I don’t usually leave the house until eight-thirty.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, except for my dog, Bleki.”

  “Blackie?” I repeated, unsure if I’d heard her right.

  “His name is spelled B-L-E-K-I. It’s Russian for Blackie, but it’s pronounced bleck-ee. He’s a great guard dog, a Black Russian Terrier. He gives me a sense of peace since I live alone.” She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled, and then showed me a picture.

  The word terrier conjured images of a small, sturdy dog. But Blecki stood about three feet tall and had to top a hundred pounds. His coal-dark fur flowed in waves along his body and down to his massive paws, covering his eyes and drooping from his jaw like a beard. “Beautiful animal. How did you come to own him?”

  “Actually, Mick saw me outside the shop one night after closing. I guess I was acting nervous. He advised me to get a dog for protection and put me in touch with a breeder. And he even helped choose the name. I often bring Bleki to the shop when I know I need to work late. Wish I’d had him with me last night, but I didn’t plan such a long day. Fortunately, I have a great neighbor who lets him out and feeds him if I have to be away.”

  Another Russian connection, I thought. “He’s a big boy,” I told Debby. “Is
it hard to manage him?”

  “He’s very well trained,” she said. “Supersmart and incredibly calm. He’s not stranger-friendly, but he’s not aggressive. They’re bred to protect their family. He’d give his life for me.”

  “In light of your ex, I’m glad you have him.” I handed the phone back and rose. “Next steps,” I said. “I’ll contact the attorney. Then I think you should call Detective Wukowski and tell him about Mick’s estate.”

  The hand wringing recommenced. “I can make the call, but would you go with me to the lawyer’s, Angie? Or… can I hire you to represent me? I’d feel so much better if you were there.”

  “I can accompany you and act as your agent. But I can’t represent you in legal matters. And unless I’m working for your attorney, nothing you share with me is covered under Wisconsin client confidentiality agreements, if it comes to the police or court testimony.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do I need that?”

  With a small shrug, I said, “I doubt it, but these circumstances are unusual, to say the least. If Ms. Franken doesn’t want to engage you as a client, I have someone I can talk to. Meanwhile, do you have ten bucks on you?”

  “Um, I think so.” She rummaged in her purse and handed me a Hamilton.

  “I’ll consider this a retainer and bill you later for hours and expenses. I’ll bill you separately for the personal work and the Galleria work. Is that agreeable?”

  “That would be great. Thanks so much.” She impulsively embraced me in a hug, then backed quickly away.

  “Don’t borrow trouble, my Aunt Terry always says. I’m sure things will work out.” The reassurance sounded sugarcoated even to me, but I hoped it was true.

  This was eating up time I could better spend on revenue-generating activity, but Debby was my daughter’s friend and she needed help. I couldn’t ignore her.

  Chapter 19

  Among all these were 700 chosen men who were left-handed; every one could sling a stone at a hair and not miss.

  Judges 20:16 (English Standard Version)

  I decided to contact Wukowski before reading through the will and the property documents Debby left with me. That way, I didn’t have direct knowledge of what the papers contained. I admit, it was an attempt to dissemble, but I wasn’t ready to inform him about her yet.

  Since my information related to Mick’s murder, I dialed his desk in Homicide.

  “Detective Wukowski.”

  Little tingles ran up my arms, creating a much pleasanter tension than what I experienced between us at A Crossing of Threads that morning. “It’s Angie. Do you have a minute? It’s about Mick Swanson.”

  “Yep.”

  Gonna go all Joe Friday on me? I refused to play that game. “Debby Hill tells me that Mick was a leftie. If he was fighting an attacker who had a gun and Mick somehow sliced himself, wouldn’t it be on the right arm? And I didn’t notice any bruising or other signs of a fight.”

  “Yeah, that is odd.” After a moment of silence and some paper riffling, he said, “The preliminary ME report doesn’t state that his left arm was disabled. There was a cut, but that wouldn’t stop an experienced fighter. And based on the knife, I have to assume he knew how to handle himself. Doesn’t make sense. Even a switch-hitter generally holds a weapon in the dominant hand.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I’m not sure what it means.”

  “Maybe nothing,” Wukowski said. “But I appreciate the call.”

  “Of course. We’re on the same side, you know.”

  “Side?”

  “The side of the truth, ya big dumb cluck. Love you.” I hung up before he could respond.

  Chapter 20

  If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?

  Albert Einstein

  I settled at my kitchen counter, reeled out the Ethernet cable from its hiding place, and plugged it into my tablet. For esthetic reasons, the router resided inside the end cupboard. Wireless is notoriously easy to hack into, so I never use it for business.

  While I waited for my laptop to power up, I picked up the paperboard mailer from the envelope that Debby gave me. It was closed with both a traditional adhesive strip and what looked like red wax, stamped with a swan’s image. Clearly, Mick wanted it to be apparent if the package was opened.

  Deciding to try to keep the seal intact, I heated a butter knife and ran it along the edges, gently prying the seal off before placing it on waxed paper.

  Inside were three documents: a bundle labeled PROPERTY, an envelope labeled LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT, and a folded paper. Might as well start with the shortest of the stack. I unfolded the note.

  Ms. Angelina Bonaparte

  I write this in my own hand so no one can dispute that it is my wish. If I should die from violence or accident, I beg you to investigate. I cannot trust the police. They have misjudged me in the past. I also beg that you will assist Debby Hill, who will inherit all I own. I regret that my legacy includes the ill will of my cousin, Artur Hunter. I cannot commit any details to paper in case he might find these documents and learn where I have hidden a box with material that will reveal that he is the person who committed crimes that were blamed on me during my service in Chechnya. Please, Angie, do this for the sake of Debby and for justice. You are the only one I can trust with this mission. My will stipulates that you shall receive $25,000 for this work, regardless of the outcome, plus expenses. I implore you to reveal the truth.

  Michael (Mick) Lebedev Swanson

  I sucked in a breath. What in heaven’s name! A slight tremor in my hand convinced me to take a break before reading the will. I placed the note on the counter and prepared a cup of peppermint tea. Settling on the couch, I sipped the soothing brew and watched the waves roll onto the Lake Michigan shoreline. Twilight cast soft indigo light on the scene. I cleared my thoughts and let the rhythm of the water calm me.

  When the cup was empty, I turned away from the big picture window. Mick’s wish was for me to investigate a criminal conspiracy involving his cousin and his own murder. More than that, he believed the police could not be trusted.

  I did not share his reservations, though. Many times over, Wukowski had proved his dedication to uncovering the truth and seeing justice served. Of course, I could go to him with this revelation. But could I leave it all in his hands? Or did I need to act, as Mick pleaded, to protect Debby? And was I capable of handling such a complicated and violent case?

  Not on my own, I acknowledged to myself, but with the help of Bobbie, Spider, and Bram, I could. It would be no more dangerous or difficult than the Johnson case, which involved international money laundering and war crimes. So the real question was, should I become enmeshed in this?

  Before I reached a conclusion, I decided to take a look at the will and the property documents.

  The one personal bequest in Mick’s will, to the Republican Residential School for Orphans in Grozny City, Chechnya, directed the executor to continue to pay a monthly stipend of one thousand US dollars to the institution until the funds ran out or the orphanage closed its doors. That meant that either Mick was Chechen or he was part of the Russian forces that had decimated a large part of that country.

  The rest confirmed Mick’s statement to Debby concerning her inheritance and the acceptance of her legal duties as an executor. Lastly, a codicil directed that twenty-five thousand be paid to me upon my acceptance of the terms of Mick’s note, as well as reimbursement for any expenses incurred in the course of my duties.

  Tomorrow morning, I would call the attorney. For now, I set the will, codicil, and note aside and turned to the other papers.

  Michael L. Swanson owned three properties: The Arts Galleria, a home in Waukesha County, and a lot near Boulder Lake—about a three-hour drive ‘up nort’ dere, hey,’ as the locals liked to joke. He had a personal bank account in Milwaukee, as well as a business account. And—good lord!—a numbered Swiss account. I hoped this wouldn’t turn out like the Johnson case with its
complicated international finances.

  All corporations, companies, and partnerships who do business in the state must register with the Wisconsin Department of Financial Institutions. I located Metal Works LLC and was not surprised to learn that Michael L. Swanson was shown as the person forming the entity and as the registered agent. There were no other members. Ditto for the Arts Galleria.

  To be sure that I didn’t miss any other real estate owned by Mick, I ran a search on a paid site, rather than relying solely on the county and city government options. “Michael L. Swanson Wisconsin” produced hundreds of hits, but only one was Mick’s age. Michael Lebedev Swanson.

  Easing back against the padded seat of my counter stool, I pondered Mick’s possible Russian connections. The knife, the middle name, the starshina, the slight accent, the bequest to the orphanage in Chechnya, even Bleki, the Russian name Mick proposed for Debby’s dog. Would there be more? And how did that intersect with his murder?

  Using Google Maps, I pored over both aerial and street views of Mick’s Waukesha County property in Wales and ran a search to determine the town’s stats—thirty-two square miles with a population of just over seven thousand and almost an hour’s drive from the Galleria. Our snowy winters would double that commute on some days.

  Why live so far out? I wondered. My own constant attention to security and Mick’s understandable paranoia led me to consider sinister reasons. The map showed at least four major routes and dozens of minor ones from Milwaukee to his home. Good for spotting and shaking off a tail. And the two-acre lot, set in woods and surrounded by other equally large parcels, allowed for escape on foot. Overall, it was a setup for a person concerned about privacy and safety.

  Was that why Mick was killed in the shop? Because the assailant couldn’t get close to him elsewhere? If so, Mick was a careful planner. I’d put money on a snowmobile and an all-terrain vehicle in one of those outbuildings. And if all else failed and he had to walk out, getting to a local highway would be well within the capabilities of a man as fit as Mick.